


This (Is)n't Happening

by singularly_obsessed (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death Mentioned, M/M, Mind Palace John, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock freaks his little head out, because we all know that's coming, bit of angst, but I'm a sap so all ends well, but isn't everything i mean come on, can you guess who, could be the three garridebs episode, inspired from tumblr posts, john gets shot, mary is a bad bad bad woman here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/singularly_obsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock, focus; only one of us is allowed to go into shock right now and I’ve got you beat.”</p><p>In which it really does take (a form of) John Watson to save a life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This (Is)n't Happening

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this is what happens when the muse sucker punches right in the face. Just a little thing born of the combining of [this](http://singularlyobsessed.tumblr.com/post/121280450978/favabean05-inevitably-johnlocked) post and [this](http://singularlyobsessed.tumblr.com/post/126457197823/vatican-cameos) post. Though one kind of took center stage while the other got an honorable mention.
> 
> Not beta'd or brit-picked, per usual so far, but if you'd like a swing at it do let me know.

_This isn’t happening._

_This is_ not _happening, this can’t be, it shouldn’t be why how how **how?!**_

Sherlock doesn’t know what happened next, doesn’t care, because _John_ was _hit,_ he was _shot,_ and he doesn’t know _how_ because _it can’t be happening._ And Sherlock distantly hears another shot, vaguely remembers his fingers tightening on the trigger before suddenly his hands are empty and his knees are on the floor and _John’s_ in front of him _bleeding,_ there’s _so much blood,_ and it’s _John’s blood,_ it shouldn’t be doing that, _how does he make it stop?!_

“Sherlock."

Sherlock’s head whips up and John’s there, but it’s not _John,_ because _John_ is on the ground _dying,_ and he doesn’t know how to fix it how to put it back because that’s what _John_ does except Sherlock needs to do that now too but he can’t _because he doesn’t know how—_

Fingers snap below his nose. “Sherlock, focus; only one of us is allowed to go into shock right now and I’ve got you beat.” John is kneeling on the other side of _John,_ calm and patient, trousers somehow repelling _John’s_ blood. Hydrophobic jeans? Is that even possible?

Hands grab his frozen wrists—calloused hands, familiar hands _(John)_ —and places them over the wound. “Sherlock, you know this,” John-not- _John_ chides kindly. “Pressure on the wound: this is basic stuff; I know you learned it somewhere.”

The hands leave his, and _oh_ what Sherlock wouldn’t give for his scarf right now; he could use it like _John_ did, but of course he doesn’t have it, _of course he doesn’t,_ so he presses harder because his hands are slippery now (don’t think don’t think _don’t think)_ and _John_ moans, and instinctively Sherlock pulls back—

John is behind him, hands against his shoulders, pushing him forward (back onto _John)._ “Oh, don’t worry about hurting me I’m already in pain now _put your weight into it!”_

So Sherlock does, because even John-not- _John_ is never wrong, at least not here, and doing anything is better than nothing (but he wishes there was _more,_ this doesn’t feel like _enough,_ there _has to be something else)._

John is across from him again, eyes locked on his hands. “Perfect. Now, I’m sure all that racket got _someone’s_ attention, but to be safe, call 999 and repeat after me. They can relay the information if an ambulance is already on its way. Ready? Say: male, gunshot to the upper chest…”

\- - -

Sherlock paces the waiting room unconsciously, right hand spasming between clenched and unclenched. He hasn’t washed his hands (doesn’t want to—what if it’s the last he has of _John?—_ don’t think that _don’t think that!),_ and little red flakes float free periodically. Lestrade sits haggardly next to Molly (she’s doing her best to comfort Mrs Hudson, but they’re both just crying he wants them to _stop),_ his gaze alternating between following Sherlock to watching his stained hands (his eyes tighten when he’s watching Sherlock, why? Not _(John)_ important, ignore).

John leans against the wall, his hands neatly in his pockets. His eyes haven’t left Sherlock, not since _that room._

“You do remember I have been shot before, right?” he says suddenly. Sherlock flinches minutely, his pace stuttering. “These conditions are better—this’ll be a cake walk.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?” Sherlock snaps, tightening his strides to walk just in front of John. The others in the room glance at him, obviously concerned, but he ignores them (not _(John) important)._

John doesn’t ask what he means. “You did the best you could, Sherlock,” he murmurs. “You’re not a field surgeon; there’s nothing else you could have done.”

“What if there was _more?”_ Sherlock snarls, hands flying up to grab his hair but stopping, fisting, lowering. “There’s always more, _there’s always something—“_

“Sherlock, calm down, you’re scaring Mrs Hudson.”

 _“Not important!”_ Sherlock nearly screams, chest heaving. It’s not _John,_ it doesn’t matter, _it will never matter, John_ is the _only thing, he has to live, he can’t die can’t die (might die) no no no nononononono—_

John scoff/snort/huffs, shifting to cross his arms. “I think I find it insulting that you’re so adamant I’m going to die.”

Sherlock stops with his back to him; his hands are in his hair, pressing against his temples, his nails scratching tackily on his scalp. “I should have known she understood the code!”

“Don’t you _dare_ blame yourself for this!” John’s directly before him, jaw hard eyes harder (enraged). “I’m the one who bloody told her what it meant, so if anyone holds blame it’s _me._ Now stop causing a scene before you get yourself removed.”

He stares steely at Sherlock, and Sherlock watches him back, breathing deeply because John’s right (and wrong). Lestrade is perched on the edge of his chair, Molly half in front of Mrs Hudson, both ready to act on any signal (but Sherlock shouldn’t have mentioned it at the wedding, _no,_ not _John’s fault)._

Sherlock takes a breath and holds it, releasing and nodding at John. He softens, nods back, and resumes his place against the wall as Sherlock drops his hands, shoving them deep in his coat, pacing the length of the waiting room again (Never _John’s)._

\- - -

The surgery goes well. When the nurse comes for visitors, it’s silently agreed that Sherlock will stay, and Lestrade and Molly will come back tomorrow with Mrs Hudson and a change of clothes (several). Sherlock (and John) are led to the private room (Mycroft’s subtle thanks) where _John_ sleeps. Everything is white or golden and pristine (as he should be).

Sherlock’s forced to wash his hands before he enters (he doesn’t mind, it was itching anyway).

He doesn’t sleep, though John tried once (and only once) to convince him to. It’s been awhile (a very long while) since he’s gotten the chance to watch _John_ sleep. He’s not going to miss it. He updates _John’s_ room while he watches (new stress lines, his scar, the topography of his skin). He doesn’t realize how long it’s been until his eyes wander back to his face and there’s a splash of blue where his eyelids were.

He licks his lips weakly. “Bit…of a role reversal, huh?”

Sherlock blinks. He thought his face was blank, but _John_ must see something, because his voice (still tired) has the beginnings of _fondly annoyed._

“Sherlock, stop being an idiot. I was bound to get shot following you one of these days.”

Sherlock can’t help the glance he throws at the white square bandage before he swallows hard (his throat is achingly dry), looking away. There’s slow shuffling, but he refuses to look away from blinds on the window, and he succeeds until strong dry fingers gently pry his from the knot they wound themselves in. He watches _John_ from the corner of his eye, neither helping nor inhibiting as _John_ unlaces his folded hands, cradling them in his warm palms when he finishes.

“I’m all right, you know,” he says into the silence, stroking Sherlock’s hands lightly.

Sherlock watches him (it tingles, but he doesn’t move them away). “So you’ve told me.”

 _John’s_ eyes flick up to him questioningly, eyebrow raised, but Sherlock doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t seem to mind (likely knew not to expect anything), but his eyes stay on Sherlock’s face even as his fingertips continue to draw on Sherlock’s skin.

“So…” he begins hesitantly, then stops. Sherlock waits. “It’s…over, now?”

Sherlock nods carefully. “Yes. I…after she—“

“I know,” _John_ interrupts (to his relief; he’s not sure how to word it kindly). “I wasn’t _that_ far gone yet.” He’s working towards something, Sherlock can see it. Looks like he’s not the only one having trouble saying things right. “I want to thank you. For…that thing you did. It was good.”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to raise a brow. “Which ‘thing’?”

 _John_ almost laughs airily (perfect enough). “All of it, really.” He threads their fingers together, and Sherlock’s pulse coughs. “The last two most of all, though.”

Sherlock frowns. “You’re thanking me for killing your wife?” Then he stills, waiting for _John_ to disengage, kick him out, _leave him._

But of course _John_ surprises him. He glances up at him, eyes layered in meaning like his voice. “She was never my wife.”

(Of _course_ he does. This is his _John.)_

“Mycroft’s already set the annulment going,” he continues, pulling Sherlock back. _John_ grips his hand tighter. “I wanted it done last winter, but…”

“Friends close and enemies closer,” Sherlock supplies absently.

“Yeah, that.” _John_ sighs. He looks down at their hands, tugs lightly to bring them to his lips, breath warm on the back of Sherlock’s. “If I’d gotten my head out of my arse sooner, none of this time would have been wasted.”

“What?” Sherlock breathes, or at least thinks he does. His expression must say enough though, because _John_ (surprising, astounding, magnificent _**John** )_ answers him anyway.

“You, you great damn idiot.” He smiles brilliantly, warmly up at (for) Sherlock. “It’s always you that keeps me right.”

**Author's Note:**

> Mm yeah. Discussion, because I love to talk fandom. I read some truly beautiful meta about how "Your way; always your way." was just as much a confession as "John Watson: you keep me right.", and I decided that I would try some poetic shit by combining the two. Yay for strokes of attempted smartness.
> 
> Drop by at my [tumblr](http://singularlyobsessed.tumblr.com/) because I desperately like to talk to strangers more than I should.


End file.
